


First Dance

by volchitsa



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 06:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volchitsa/pseuds/volchitsa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of the first time Clint and Natasha danced, in one-shot form. Slight references to my first Clintasha story, The Three Times Natalia Romanova Surprised Clint Barton and the One Time She Didn't. Basically unapologetic fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Dance

The first time Clint asks Natasha to dance, it's more of an order than anything, and she feels a stabbing sense of confusion as she actually obeys.

They're undercover in some city in Europe – Budapest, Belgrade, Bucharest, they all sort of blur together after a while – and have been for weeks now. Natasha has dyed her hair a dirty golden blonde to complete the cover and has forgone her favorite black leather for something a little less conspicuous, something that Clint can't quite wrap his head around every time he sees her; his Tasha is a redheaded firecracker. This Natasha looks like some sort of old Hollywood glam girl.

Not that he's complaining, of course. She's not supposed to be his Tasha, not here. Here, she's Mrs Pavlenko – they had grown oddly attached to the Pavlenko name since their first trip to Budapest together – and he is her lovely, charming husband, Mr Pavlenko. They do normal, domestic things. They have normal, domestic small talk with everyone they meet. They have normal, domestic arguments about silencers and semi-automatic weaponry in the car.

The first time Natasha accepts Clint's offer to dance, she does it with a surprised grin, and he feels his heart beating frantically somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.

He looks dashing, she notices with a proud smile. Fingernails clean, shoes tied properly, bowtie knotted correctly. He straightens his cufflinks with a flourish and a wink. She's suddenly glad for her years of training to hide her emotions; if she had less control over herself, she would have blushed. Old Hollywood glam is their apparent theme for the night, as he channels Brando or Dean or some other mischievous icon.

She's squeezed herself into this lacy backless pink number that she normally would not have touched with a ten-foot pole. But Mrs Pavlenko is a notorious fashionista, and Natasha is never one to back down from a challenge, even if that challenge is a pair of six-inch stilettos and a very unforgiving hardwood floor.

The first time the Black Widow and Hawkeye dance together, they lose themselves so thoroughly in the music and each other that they don't even notice when the rest of the crowd begins to back away to watch.

His hand wraps around hers and squeezes it reassuringly as they enter the hall, a long room with a disgustingly tall ceiling and the most disturbing array of rich Europeans they had ever seen gathered in one place at one time. Natasha has to dig a pointy heel into Clint's foot to get his attention back from the giant stag of sculpted ice, diamonds dripping from its intricately sculpted antlers and fat rubies glittering where an arrow pierced its chest.

They make their way to their assigned table – they would be seated with the President of France and his mistress if the pair hadn't already ditched the party for a more private venue – and sit close together, whispering in code about the security manning the exits, the cameras covering every inch of the room, the obvious moles planted in strategic locations to weed out thieves. A waiter brings them each a glass of champagne and Clint sips his delicately, ignoring how Tasha downs hers in one; she could always drink him under the table, he remembers out of the blue.

The first time Hawkeye and the Black Widow share a dance floor, the world could have fallen down around them and they would have kept dancing, oblivious to any sounds besides each others' shaky breaths.

A security guard, more chained hitman than bouncer, gets the Pavlenkos in his sight and keeps them there, staring at them through dark sunglasses that aren't entirely necessary indoors. Clint can almost hear his eyes boring holes into Tasha, and feels a sudden rush of adrenaline as he remembers that they were on a mission, not just out for a night on the town.

“Let's dance.” It comes out as a statement, though he tried to mean it as a question. He stands and holds out his hand to her, his eyebrow twitching as she looks up into his face, their cue that they were being watched. She grins, momentarily confused as to why they would dance if they were being watched – wouldn't that bring more attention to them? – but slides her hand into his and allows herself to be led to the center of the room, where a few couples are already swaying to the nondescript music being played by the house band.

The first time they dance, they both smile honestly for the first time in years, and all hell breaks loose.

Clint places one hand on her waist – an act that would have warranted a slap just a few months ago, but now sent a shiver down Tasha's spine – and entwines the fingers of his free hand with hers. She rests her arm on his shoulder, pressed up against him, remembering the last time they were this close. She can't help but blush as she remembers that they had been wearing a significantly lesser amount of clothes.

“Who would have thought?” she hears Clint whisper as she rests her head on his shoulder, gazing up into his face with a serene smile. “The Widow has a heart after all.”

“It's a secret,” she jokes, moving just enough to gently press her lips to his jawline. She sighs against his neck: “Don't tell anyone.” Clint notices that the rest of the crowd has backed away at the same moment Tasha does, and, cursing themselves aloud, they dive to the floor just as a hail of bullets falls from the sky.

The first dance they share, four innocent people die.

Clint pulls his guns from inside his jacket, Tasha from garters on her thighs, and before the dust settles around them, every guard that had pulled a gun is slumped over, oozing life, completely still. She grabs his hand and runs, right past the ice stag. Clint pulls free from her grasp and quickly grabs the thing they came for; the only real ruby set in the ice, the largest ruby he had ever seen, shoving it in his pocket hastily and hurrying out after her.

They are silent in the car, their getaway driver oblivious to what had just occurred inside the building. When they arrive back at their hotel, they pack quickly, not even bothering to change from their formal attire. Clint receives a call from SHIELD saying a helicopter would be arriving shortly, hang tight, don't leave. The sarcastic voice on the other end suggests not sleeping together as a suitable activity while they wait.

Tasha's already switched on the old record player in the corner, big band music floating across the room along with her. She's kicked off her heels and most of her makeup has been rubbed off, but she still glows in the dark hotel room, and Clint's breath is nearly knocked out of him. She places his hand on her hip, hers on his shoulder, free hands entwined, and sways back and forth to the music. He sighs and plants a soft kiss on the top of her head, smiling despite himself, tracing his fingers across the open back of her dress and relishing her shudders. She steers him toward the bed, unbuttoning his shirt as he undoes the clasp at the back of her neck.

The second time they dance together, it isn't quite as eventful as the first, but when giving their reports on the night and the mission, it is all either of them can remember.


End file.
